You have been making my day, all my days, for the last year. And I liked it that way. But I have to let go of this. It is not right. This is not right. I guess this is the only cure I know. It's true that bad days become the best when you are around. It is true that you make me smile before I finally close my eyes for a slumber late at night. But you see, you don't love me. You can't love me. It's not your fault. And it never was. This is the only cure for what I feel right now, when I wake up and open my eyes, squinting at the light coming from the rays of early morn sun. Too, squinting at the TRuTH.
And this is what makes this all the more painful, damn, you are my right kind of wrong.
And this is what makes this all the more painful, damn, you are my right kind of wrong.
